


Doctor Watson

by Gumbies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU that I found on Tumblr that I turned into a fic, Eventual Smut, Fluff, John is the therapist, M/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gumbies/pseuds/Gumbies
Summary: Sherlock is forced into therapy by Mycroft.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another story I've pulled from my Wattpad ;_;

Sherlock sat in the back of cab being sent off to a nearby mental health ward, his brother constantly texting him, making sure that he was following through with the plan. To get some kind of help. Sherlock knew it was pointless, he wouldn't listen to the therapist at all, not that he didn't want to, more that he was unable to.

Along with being a constant user of various drugs and narcotics, he also didn't listen to instruction. Being told that he couldn't use drugs, the very thing that helps him cope with the constant flow of trauma he deals with while  on a case or at work, wouldn't do anything to help.

The cabbie kept looking up to the mirror to view the man in the back seat. The mysterious man with the black coat had pale skin, mostly due to the fact that field work isn't his area of expertise. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and sad, even the cabbie could see. Sherlock noticed the man's gaze and semi glared at him, as an attempt to deture the man's curious look.

The cabbie pulled up to a curb, Sherlock sighed and tried to hand him some money, but the cabbie wouldn't take it.

"A..." The cabbie looked at his clipboard, "Mycroft Holmes has already paid." 

"Of course he did." Sherlock looked at him again. "And im also guessing that he paid you more to make sure that I get to this destination."

The cabbie nodded and Sherlock stepped out of the car, the sign to the establishment was lit up by lights at the bottom of the board, Sherlock didn't even put into account to how late it actually was, he hoped that no one was in, but he knew Mycroft probably paid someone to come in.

The door was already opened, when he walked in he noticed a man sitting in the waiting room, his therapist, he was wearing a nice outfit, not to formal but not casual enough to just be there, he had a clipboard and a pen, that might have been the biggest give away, he glanced up to meet eyes with Sherlock. He stood up to greet him.

"Hello, I'm Doctor John Watson, but you can call me John, or Doctor Watson if that makes you most comfortable." He reached out to shake Sherlock's hand, Sherlock shook it but refused to make constant eye contact, instead he looked around the room, he looked at the floor, and then looked back at John, he stepped away after the handshake.

"Sherlock." he said in reply, John nodded and chuckled.

"I know."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "Okay then. Where shall we go?" 

John extended his hand in the direction of his office which was down the hall. Once they approached the door, Sherlock noticed John's name tag.

Dr. John H. Watson

John unlocked the door and Sherlock stepped inside, it was exactly what Sherlock thought a therapists office looked like. There was a desk, two chairs, and one of those beds that the patient lays down in when talking.

John noticed a smirk on Sherlock's face.

"Well, I'm not used to patients this late, so sorry for the messy room, I usually clean in the morning, it just helps start my day." 

Sherlock glanced at him and sat down on the small bed.

"Saying I'm a patient implies that you think I'm going to be attending sessions regularly and or ever again. Just in case you're wondering, I wont be." Sherlock lowered his head but kept his eyes firmly planted on John, he noticed him uncomfortably clearing his throat.

"Have you ever thought that therapy might help you?" John clicked his pen.

"There's a lot more to me than my drug problem, whatever I tell you will result in you prescribing me with other drugs to counter act my mental problems but due to the fact that I have a current drug habit, I'll abuse them and then we'll be back to square one." Sherlock looked away from John as he spoke.

"We can use other methods besides drugs." 

"Which I guarantee you will not work at all." Sherlock added quickly, he leaned in and rested his forearms on his knees, John started to write something down.

"Why don't you start with your brother. You seem to not enjoy him getting you into this."

"Don't therapists usually talk about themselves for a while or at least try to talk about a basic "plan of attack."?" Sherlock kept his eye contact away from John.

"I'm not like most therapists." John said, he rested the pen down on the clipboard.

Sherlock and John just sort of stared at each other for a few moments, not exactly sure what to say, Sherlock did not want to be there, and he knew that John was aware of that fact.

"Look Sherlock, I know you don't want to be here, but you're extremely lucky that you aren't in some kind of jail right now." Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"I don't need help."

"Not according to your appearance."

Sherlock tilted his head, glaring at the seemingly all knowing man in front of him.

"Do tell." Sherlock leaned back, as if to give John a look at the apparently broken and damaged man that he was been ordered to fix.

John smiled. "You are using drugs, that's one of the loudest cry for help there is." John picked his pen back up.

"You were a soldier." Sherlock's eyes moved to a picture above John's desk, it was John posing in a humorous way in uniform, maybe to lighten the mood of war.

"Yes. Hardest four years of my life." John said, he messed with his collar, Sherlock took notice of his nervous tick. 

"So, therapy? That's how you cope with the trauma of war? You listen to people's sob stories all day and use it as a distraction? Really not the best stradigy in my opinion."

"You would know." John sighed, he knew that there was no progress being made.

"Look Doctor, I'm going to walk out of this office once this session is over, get in a cab, go home, and do what ever the hell I want because you know what? I cannot get help. I cannot have someone help me. I'm to far gone."

"No one is. You just have to find the right person to help."

"And you think you are?" Sherlock narrowed his gaze. 

"You never know." John smiled again. The constant amount of friendliness was making Sherlock uncomfortable.

"When did you start using drugs?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock?" 

"What?" 

"When did you start using drugs?" John asked again.

Sherlock sighed and gave John a look.

"Young." 

"How young?" 

"Young, okay?"

John put his hands up in defense and laughed.

"Sherlock, I'm not here to attack you, I'm here to help." 

"Listen, I don't care if my brother makes me go to this everyday, I don't need help."

John sighed and set all of his things down, he calmly folded his hands together and looked at Sherlock, who had done the exact same.

"Sherlock, I want to help you."

"Because it's your job."

"Because I know you want help." John said, Sherlock glanced away, whether he wanted to admit it or not he did. He didn't know what he could do besides morphine or cocaine to help him.

"Did you start using drugs after something happened when you were younger?" Sherlock looked up immediately.

"Damn it Mycroft." Sherlock groaned in a tone just above a whisper and rubbed his face with his hands.

"I know that Mycroft telling me things irritates you."

"Well how would you feel if your brother were to completely butt in and took over your life's course?"  Sherlock sighed and relaxed his hands, he knew there was no way out of this.

"Tell me about him, Redbeard I mean." 

Sherlock cringed at the name, not because it was bad, but he knew that saying it would make him overly willing to talk about things he didn't want to. Mycroft knew his biggest pressure point and was using it against him.

"He was my dog, what more do you want?" 

"Why the name Redbeard?" John asked, Sherlock felt an immense sense of helplessness. He wanted him to stop asking questions, he wanted the 45 minutes to be over, but to his anguish, he was only 10 minutes in.

"I don't want to talk about Redbeard." Sherlock stammered, he hadn't ever suddered like that in his life. 

"Okay, that's quite alright."

"Thank you." Sherlock said quietly.

"Instead of that, let's talk about you, what do you do?" John asked, he didn't seem to be annoyed by the sudden appointment and the time at which it was set.

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock said, he wrung his hands irritably as he spoke. The overwhelming desire to run out of the office was excruciating. 

"And what does that mean?" John asked.

"It means that when the police are clueless, which is always, they consult me."

John laughed, Sherlock didn't gather how it was funny, but he smiled too.

"It must be hard." John sighed and messed with his collar once again.

Sherlock shrugged off the comment. He didn't want to talk about anything involving his mental state.

"You're not a kid anymore, you're a grown adult with more complex feelings than say a child would. Yet you keep avaiding questions revolving around you and your mental wellbeing."

"Maybe it's because I'm fine." Sherlock said plainly, trying his best to not think about his last case.

"Lets continue talking about your job then."

Sherlock made a show of re-crossing his legs and rolling his eyes.

"What was the last case you did?"

"Classified information." 

"I'm not the common wealth." John added.

Sherlock tilted his head.

"Maybe not. But it's still classified."

"That's just a fancy way of saying, 'I don't want to talk about it'."

Sherlock just stared at John, observing his body language, the way he sat, the way he spoke, Sherlock noticed that he hunched over so slightly on the right side, possibly due to a war injury. 

"Sherlock." John said calmly, "We can help you." 

"No you can't."

There was so much that Sherlock didn't want unearthed, so much that Sherlock buried deep inside that not even his brother could pinpoint them. He was a walking safe, full of secrets regarding others and himself, secrets regarding who he is, who he was, and who he plans to be. 

Sherlock Holmes couldn't be helped.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, before the new season came out so Redbeard is still a dog in the story :/ I don't think I'll change it because I like the idea of Redbeard being a dog rather than a kid. In all honestly I didn't really like what they did with series 4 in general, but that's just me.


End file.
